


Grey. Red. Green.

by calvinahobbes



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blade kink, Bloodplay, Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Femslash, Service Kink, Solo Kink, kinky not-porn, punishment kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calvinahobbes/pseuds/calvinahobbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is only one thing in the whole house Jenny is not allowed to touch. Madame has expressly told her not to handle the swords...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey. Red. Green.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "blades" square, for Kink Bingo.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Comments and criticism always appreciated.

Madame is resting. She sleeps more than Jenny, and like everything Madame does, Jenny is not sure whether it is a lizard trait or simply singular to Madame. Jenny is inclined to believe that Madame is indeed a singular creature, but she has heard stories of Madame's family -- resting in the ground for millennia until it's time to awaken.

Jenny takes to her responsibilities with energy and care. Before Madame took her in, she had no great outlook in life, forced to make a living in any way she could. Her gratitude to Madame, for providing her with work and safety (and quite frequently adventure), prompts her to strive for perfection in her housekeeping. She takes care of Madame, launders and mends her clothes, acquires and prepares her food, and keeps the house tidy and presentable. And in return Madame takes care of Jenny.

There is only one thing in the whole house Jenny is not allowed to touch. Madame has expressly told her not to handle the swords and only dust very carefully around them. Jenny is standing in front of the sword rack now, not touching, but looking. She has been fortunate to see Madame handle her weapons on many occasions, seen her wield them with ease and a fierce joy, observed the blades glint dully in the gaslight. There is a mystery to them, she thinks, completely different from the mystery inherent to her Madame. The whisper they make whenever they are unsheathed calls forth gooseflesh all down Jenny's back.

She reaches out, carefully, and draws her index finger across the top one. It is Madame's favorite and by far the one she uses the most. On some nights when they sit together in the drawing room (a privilege Jenny savors), Madame will sharpen it while Jenny mends her clothes. The sound of the steel against the blade over the rustle of Madame's silken dresses pouring over her lap sometimes makes her feel very strange, hot and cold at the same time, and if she thinks too much about how the tears in Madame's clothing have come about, her hands will shake too badly for sewing. On occasion Madame will notice and stop her own work, prompting Jenny gently to go to bed and not drive herself so hard. Whenever that happens, Jenny feels a wave of gratitude mingled with regret.

She runs her finger along the next two weapons as well, letting her digit slide slowly across the bumps of the engravings on the sheaths. She rests her palm against the bottom one, the shortest, but doesn't put the weight of her hand on it. Her heart is pounding. She has never been so bold before, but she thinks about the glint of the blade, wonders how the slight curving will break the light, and she wants so badly to _see_.

She ought to ask Madame, but she can't bear the thought of it, cannot imagine what words to use to describe the sensation of butterflies in her stomach. Madame would be angry if she knew what she is doing. She would raise her voice and scold, and Jenny would feel so small and wrecked, but she would stand it, because she knows she deserves it. She deserves a good telling off for just considering going against Madame's orders. She knows this, but she can't seem to stop herself. She slips her hand under the bottom blade and carefully lifts it from its place.

The weight of it in her hand is surprising, heavy and light at the same time. _Perfectly balanced_ , she heard Madame say once. She studies the decoration on the sheath, raises it close to her face and lets her eyes travel the length of it. She holds it in her left hand and wraps her right around the handle, folds her fingers cautiously and thinks about Madame's hand in the exact same place. She breathes deeply and unsheathes the blade. It slips free with a whisper and a sound like the hint of a tuning fork, and a chill wracks her whole body. She stares at the shaft, turns it slowly and studies the light catch in the dull steel. Her breath is short. She puts the sheath on the table and wraps both hands around the handle, turning the sword upright.

She shouldn't play with it. It's not a toy. It is very sharp and dangerous. But still, it is nothing as dangerous as Madame if she found out. Jenny has seen such a sword cut the limb clean off an alien creature, but she has seen Madame kill a man with a well-aimed lash of her tongue. Jenny shivers. She removes her left hand, damp now with perspiration, from atop her right. For a moment she hesitates, but she has come too far now not to feel it. She puts a single finger against the flat side of the blade and is surprised that it's not cold. It is smooth, almost soft, and room temperature. She lets herself enjoy the careful sweep of a finger down the length of it, down to the hilt. Her heart is beating wildly, her pulse fluttering. She curls a single finger over the edge, feeling it dig ever so slightly into her skin right where the flat is beginning to bend into sharpness.

She puts her index finger to the tip of the blade, barely brushing the steel, but when she pulls her hand back a perfect red drop is forming on the tip of her finger. She doesn't feel a thing, but her pulse gives a sluggish jump, and the red wells into a perfect pearl. Jenny closes her eyes for a moment, swallowing heavily. She cannot deny the effect her exploration has on her. She feels dull with pleasure, excitement, and fear. She must put the sword back soon. But before she does, she has to feel...

She rests the flat of the blade very, very carefully against her left wrist. Against her heated skin, her fluttering pulse point, the steel feels nearly cool, and the deadly, sharp edge is just a very slight scratch against her sensitive flesh. She stares at the sight of the grey against her pink skin, at the slightly white edge where it is pressing into her arm, and for a moment she is overcome with the desire to press so hard it will draw blood.

"Jenny?"

She gives a shout, jumps, and drops the sword. She spins around to see Madame peering at her. As the weapon clatters onto the floor, she feels a sting on her wrist, and when she looks down she sees a thin line of red welling up from a shallow cut there. Shame floods her like a tidal wave, and she can't look at Madame. "I was merely. I. Oh, Madame, I'm so sorry! I don't what came over me-" she begins, but then she clamps her lips shut and bends her head further.

"Jenny." Madame's hand rasps against her cheek, cool and entirely inhuman, and Jenny is too fraught to suppress the shudder that runs through her. Madame sighs. "You mammals. I'm afraid I rarely understand you." At the kind tone of her voice, Jenny can't help but look up. She meets Madame's gaze and feels an entirely new flutter in her stomach.

"I'm sorry, Madame."

Madame removes her hand and Jenny misses it instantly. "It's quite alright. You're only human, after all."

"But, I went against your express order, Madame." Jenny frowns slightly. Madame looks so kind, calm and not angry at all. She doesn't quite understand it if she won't be scolded. She thinks she might be disappointed, and she doesn't quite understand that either.

Madame smiles. It's a cruel smile, and her eyes become darker. "Oh, I know. And I _will_ have to punish you, Jenny."

Jenny feels faint with relief and something else. It might be gratitude. It might be belonging. It might be love.


End file.
